Eight years ago it was not unusual to be leaving our annual Superbowl party to the rumor of someone puking from excessive celebration (coin-flip shots of Mescal and eight bottles of Wild Vines will do that to a person). I can say this year is the first time I've been in the presence of projectile vomiting even before the game started, a solid six hours prior to kickoff.
Shortcake complained of a headache all day Friday and some of the day yesterday. I woke up to her at the side of my bed at seven o'clock this morning complaining of a stomach ache, a complaint that continued all morning long. Right before eleven o'clock, just after instructing her to get dressed for the much anticipated Superbowl Party, I heard the unmistakable sounds of barf-to-floor splashdown.
How fitting, really, after having watched Four Christmases last night. One of the funniest scenes of the movies shows Vince Vaughn's character's visceral reaction to baby vomit. Oh, how The General and I laughed during this part of the movie not even twenty-four hours ago. One of those "It's funny because it's true" moments, but I guess the joke was on us. I was not surprised when Punkin walked into the bathroom, turned up her nose, declared the whole scene before her disgusting, and then stated, "Daddy can't be around her". My response: "Yeah, I know. 'Cause he'll do it too". Art imitating life really.
I also may have brought this on myself, having put a prediction out into the universe yesterday while eating out. The girls were unusually cranky which totally ruined the whole Pizza Hut dining experience, and I said to The General, "I predict we will be dealing with vomit before the week is done". And why not this week? It's only six days until the 1955 sock hop, Shortcake's Valentine's Day party is on Wednesday (you might recall she had to miss her Halloween party this year, and trust me when I tell you she's already concerned about missing this party due to illness too), and I have a rather daunting amount of paperwork to complete and ten or so staffings to attend in the next eight days.
After her post-puke bath and tooth brushing, I stationed Shortcake on the sheet draped couch within arms reach of a puke bucket. She claims her stomach feels about the same, she's pretty pale but not running a fever, and the upside is that she's been a little bit more cheerful in the last half hour or so. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it was a fluke thing, that maybe we'll all avoid the flu bug this time around. Otherwise that light at the end of the tunnel I was talking about last week? I believe Big Papa's story about the oncoming train might be more accurate than I'm ready to admit.